


The Shoebox

by Heavenlea6292



Series: Home Is A Fire [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Childhood, Cute, Fluff, If You Squint - Freeform, Memories, Weecest, Weechesters, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:41:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavenlea6292/pseuds/Heavenlea6292
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a whole lot of history for one little shoebox, now held together with tape and string, but it was a treasure trove unimaginable.</p><p>It held the life of one boy who never had anything of his own; save for what could be stuffed inside a toddler's shoebox.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shoebox

To anyone else, it was just a beat up old shoe box. It was torn and fraying around the edges and the lid was pulling apart, a logo for some long forgotten shoe company faded and scratched away. All that remains a a faint 6 on the corner, written in sharpie marker. Dean knows which box it is even if Sammy doesn’t, and he doesn’t tell him. It was the box with Sammy’s first pair of real shoes, the shoes that only fit for about a month until he grew out of them, but he wore for a year before they could afford another pair. Those shoes are long since gone, their duct tape husks cast into some motel trashcan, but the box remains. 

It’s the kind of shoebox that most people just shove in the back of their closet, to be forgotten about until their kid comes home and tells them they have to make a box diagram for school. It’s the type of box they see nestled in the back, dusty and worn even though they haven’t touched it, but they thank god that the don’t have to call around frantically at 7pm at night to make sure their kid doesn’t fail.  
It’s just a box, from the outside.

 

But inside it, there’s an entire world.

 

Sam’s kindergarten diploma sits at the very bottom, folded up neatly and tucked aside, soon to be covered with every other award and recognition that Sam will ever receive. There’s a collection of bent postcards, with Greetings from St. Louis, Missouri to Sunny Atlanta, Georgia; all with the same note scrawled on the back from Sammy’s postcard phase, ‘To Dee, from Sam’. Sam always wanted to send them somewhere, but Dean had to patiently explain that there was no one to send them to, the look of heartbreak on Sam’s face killing him. He made two little mailboxes out of an old Lucky charms box and let Sam play postman. It wasn’t the same as actually sending them, but it was the best Dean could do, and he kept all of them.  
Next to that is the picture that Sam drew him in second grade for Mother’s Day, childish and crude but still endearing. Sam had run through the door looking like he won the lottery that day, shoving the paper into Dean’s face with hope in his eyes. “Do you like it?” he asked, his hands twisting. Dean bit his lip, trying not to cry as he nodded.  
"Yeah Sammy, I love it."  
"I know you’re not a mother, but you take care of me so I…I just thought you’d like it."

 

On top of that sits a collection of pictures, of him and Sam and whatever house or motel they were at, a thumb visible in the corners of most of them. There’s one picture that he could never get rid of, even though they would never see the woman again, but Sam’s face was so priceless. Sam perched on the lap of the woman who was next door in the motel when he was 7, her arms wrapped around him and her cheek resting on his head. If he tried very hard, Dean could sometimes remember her name, it was something like Jane or Anne, and he remembered his anger when his dad and her crashed into the room, mistaking their door for her own, scurrying back out before Sam could completely wake up.  
Another picture is on top of that one, a picture of Sam and Dean and Bobby at the park, taken by someone that he never remembered and it probably didn’t matter.  
There was an old keychain can opener cast aside, a little picture of the beach on the handle from one of the many times they were in California. He had taken it because Sammy liked the picture, and it was just lying innocently in the drawer there, probably left by some former motel patron. He always loved the look on Sam’s face when he stared at the picture in the winter, when the motel room was too cold not to wear a sweatshirt and two pairs of socks, the way he used to whisper, “We’re gonna live there someday Dean, it’s never cold in California.”

 

An old toy car sat alone in the corner, well worn and played with, the prize from the Lucky Charms box that he never even got to enjoy, the car ending up being Sammy’s anyways. He could never get rid of that tiny toy car, the last remnants of his and Sam’s childhood. It was tucked under the torn newspaper wrapper from the amulet that Sam had given him for Christmas, a reminder that no matter how much he believed in Dad, that Sam would never go without gifts again. A handful of number shaped candles clattered around on top of all that, from cakes that he and Sammy had shared for their birthdays, most often Sam’s.

Folded up to look like just a stupid little scrap of paper is Dean's most precious memory, something that he never shared, a report card from Sonny's, the first one that didn't look like the greatest hits of D and F, one that he would sometimes touch when he wanted to remember he hasn't always been stupid. More photos are piled on top, of Sam at some competition, debate, if he remembers right; Sam and some dog they found wandering around a campsite, his and Sam's feet next to each other in front of a campfire with hot dogs on sticks long forgotten. There's a picture of Dean with cherry pie filling smeared across his lips, his eyes crossed and coming at the camera like he'd gonna eat it, and a picture of Sammy with the same filling smeared all over his face, looking gennerally irritable save for the hint of a smile quirking the edge of his lips. 

A pink pair of silk panties are folded neatly in the corner, to the naked eye a trophy but to him a memory that he wishes he could forget but he still doesn't want to- the first time he ever questioned anything about himself sexually, the first time he liked smething that wasn't quite normal. On top of that is a playboy, Anna Nicole Smith, the one he nicked from Dad's duffle, the same one he shared with Sammy.  There are other things: lighters, roach clips, a long forgotten pipe that hasn't seen use since Dean's 23rd birthday, an old zippo with delicate designs carved into it, a little bible that the Gideons always hand out at every fair, a worn copy of Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five and Sam's own favorite, Ayn Rand's Anthem. 

A paper that looks like it's seen better days is still crumpled in a ball, a letter from Stanford with one sentence, the only sentence Dean could ever read before bursting into tears: 

_"Dear Samuel Winchester, I take great pleasure in offering you admission to Stanford University's Class of 2006...."_

Fucking California, stealing his brother. _“We’re gonna live there someday Dean, it’s never cold in California.”_

More pictures are scattered, pictures of Sam walking across Campus, his shoulders hunched or his nose in a book as he heads to class, coming out of a class building with friends, laughing on a grassy lawn. There's a picture of him and Cassie, a broad smile on his face as her lips press against his cheek, a picture that is burnt around the edges from a drunken night when he decides to destory it and then decides against it.

The night he goes to Sammy to ask him for help, he opens the box and touches everything inside, praying that Sam could be the first thing that comes back to him, for once in his life. If Sam could just come back, if Sam would just come with him, maybe he could stop clinging to a shoebox. 

 

It was a whole lot of history for one little shoebox, now held together with tape and string, but it was a treasure trove unimaginable.

 

It held the life of one boy who never had anything of his own; save for what could be stuffed inside a toddler's shoebox. 


End file.
